


Desperate Tempora

by diannaollim



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Bruce Banner, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts, Wilderness Survival, Will add more tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diannaollim/pseuds/diannaollim
Summary: "The sun was disappearing behind the horizon faster and faster, every second it felt like, and Bruce was becoming more and more sure he wouldn’t find his way back to the others before dark. He’d been trying to stay on the sand for the majority of his trek but the further he ventured down the white, narrow coast, the slimmer it got. Pretty soon he would either have to wade in the water or attempt to navigate the forest. Or, if he needed to, turn back."Or, the quinjet crashes on their way back from a mission and the Avengers find themselves stranded on an island. Apart. Their journey is one of pain, a test of emotional endurance, and a brutal awakening of miscommunicated truths.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Desperate Tempora

The sun was disappearing behind the horizon faster and faster, every second it felt like, and Bruce was becoming more and more sure he wouldn’t find his way back to the others before dark. He’d been trying to stay on the sand for the majority of his trek but the further he ventured down the white, narrow coast, the slimmer it got. Pretty soon he would either have to wade in the water or attempt to navigate the forest. Or, if he needed to, turn back. 

They’d been on a mission in Cuba, some low-profile assassin job to try and prevent a team of skilled hackers from obtaining nuclear codes at a headquarters in Nuevitas that apparently warranted all six of them to achieve. It had gone smoothly, completed in roughly twenty-six minutes or so. So smooth, in fact, that there was no need for the big guy, and so Bruce had simply fiddled his thumbs with Thor in the Quinjet, warming the seats in anticipation for their other four to return. Thor took off back to Asgard as soon as the mission was over, something about family business, and the rest of them had piled in the jet, New York bound. Clint, still antsy from the mission thrill, was allowed to steer in lieu of flying autopilot, which could be seen as their first mistake. It had gone evenly for the first five minutes or so, before Tony had jumped up in panic and shared (quite helpfully, and a couple hundred feet off the ground too late) that he had forgotten to refill the kerosene when it had gotten down to 60 gallons after the flight over. There was yelling, and panicking, and swearing as Tony informed (wheezing between each word) that the plane uses up five gallons per mile. And they had already gone about nine miles out. This was when Clint conveniently realized that he was actually steering southward, on accident, rather than north towards home. So, basically the verdict was that they were going to crash, but crash in the South Atlantic Ocean instead of the North. 

By this point, they had on average three miles out before crashing. Bruce honestly can’t recall much that occurred during this period. He remembers vaguely Steve sinking down to the floor and sighing, Natasha rummaging through overhead compartments for parachutes, Tony and Clint talking very fast over the control panel. Steve came over to him at one point and got very close, resting a hand on his shoulder and looking hard into his eyes, asking him if he was feeling okay. He probably thought Bruce might transform out of stress, which was highly plausible. Two miles out. Natasha began squealing then, laughing in relief and holding up a large pack of parachutes. She tossed them around. Someone shoved one on his back and latched it in around his chest, Steve probably, and told him where the clasp was to set it open. He didn’t really listen to him though. The prospect of maybe dying in a couple minutes was occupying his whole mind. It was a selfish last thought, and not at all helpful in the midst of a crisis, but he couldn’t help but interpret this as an opportunity. He’d tried everything of course, including jumping, and obviously none of his attempts were successful. But he had never considered jumping over water, much less from a height this extreme. There was chance that this method could be the one, granted that the big guy stays dormant for long enough. He wasn’t about to pass it up. 

Something must have been betrayed on his face, however, because he can remember the panicked look Steve gave him as he stood there slack, his attention murky, and then the feeling of Steve grabbing his arm tight with his own and pulling him in to his chest. Bruce, more alert now with his intentions determined, tried to struggle away as wind gust in and the drop-way was opened. Clint had hollered something about an island being below them, that they were as close as they could get. Steve held him in an iron grip, waiting for each of the others to line up next to them. Tony came up, then Natasha, who looked like she was crying, and then Clint, who was carrying an extra bag in his arms. We’ll locate each other, Tony had said. Of course, we will, Steve had said back. Bruce couldn’t listen to this, however, as his eyes were locked on the distant ground beneath them and his strength concentrated on escaping from Steve’s unrelenting hold. That was when, without warning, Steve had jumped from the edge of the jet, the other three not far behind, and Bruce and him were plummeting at an amazing speed towards the ocean. Steve had turned him around to look him in the eyes (such an odd compulsion when dropping rapidly through the sky), wiped Bruce’s wet cheeks dry, and whispered something unintelligible in his ear. 

A flash, a blink, and he was alone. Steve had triggered his latch and sent him flying. One moment he was held—against his will, yes, but not uncomfortably—and the next he was soaring smoothly through the cold air down towards the sea, the empty air around him damnably sensitizing. He had fallen in about twenty feet off from the shore, and after he wrestled his suffocated parachute off from his back and found his breath, he swam to the island. 

Which brings him here, a few miles east from where he had originally crashed, staggering along the floury coastline, drenched and miserable. Well, maybe not miserable, the whole situation in itself was a luxury compared to some of the shit he saw and experienced back in his days, and compared to what other people experience, but he certainly was angry. He had no reason to be angry with Steve, he thought as he kicked little shells on the side of the beach, since he was only satisfying the deeply engineered complex within him that yearns to liberate others, but he was still pissed. Dammit, he sabotaged his exit. His potential, final way out. No more intrusive thoughts, no more burdening people, no more endangering mankind, no more congestive guilt, no more serving as a liability. He would be done. God, a sound makes its way from his throat and he sinks to his knees in the sand, it sounds so nice. Oddly, he’d thought this kind of thinking had eclipsed for him. He found a family of sorts, an occupation that didn’t involve selling a part of himself, and a real home. His life was idyllic, essentially, if you exclude the ‘being him’ part of it all. But this brought back everything for him—though maybe it hadn’t ever left. Maybe it was always there, just as true, just as solid, but just upstaged temporarily by all the good fortune he had been receiving. He’s been led astray, that’s what it was. He’s been so dumb to forget his place the second someone shows him generosity. But his old flame has been unsheathed, prepared to burn brighter than before. I was stupid then, and younger, he reasoned, fingers digging in the sand as he squinted at the sky in thought, now I’ll be able to get it right. 

Bruce sighed as he hefted himself up the small incline that entered the mouth of the forest. The sun was almost entirely set by now, only small rays of tangerine light filtering through the trees. The island was gorgeous, really, he realized as the made his way through the outer foliage. The vibrant green canopies and sweet flowers that framed the branny white sands, the near translucent waters. It was a kind of paradise, and if he wasn’t so focused on locating the others, or siting a dangerous animal or poisonous plant that could help him along to his ultimate goal, then he would almost call it peaceful. 

The forest wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t some labyrinth of dark corners and curious ivy with wild creatures lurking in its shadows that you imagine when you think of the endless island in Connell’s The Most Dangerous Game. It almost reminded him of the forests up north in New York. Massive trees and rich soil and bizarre noises coming from every direction. It did become frightening, however, when the sun fully set. It had gone from golden with sunset to pitch dark in a matter of minutes, and Bruce could barely tell when his feet hit the ground. The temperature too dropped with the sunlight, and Bruce found himself unable to control the shivers that wracked his body, the damp clothes clinging to his skin only worsening matters. He looked around desperately. Where are the others? It seemed like he had walked the entire length of this blasted island, and not one sign of human life. They couldn’t have—no. He wasn’t letting his mind go there. They were around here somewhere; he simply knew it. He would locate them soon enough. The further he trudged on, though, the more and more his exhaustion presented itself. He realized, suddenly, upon remembering what exhaustion was, that everything ached something fierce and that his eyelids felt as if they weighed a thousand tons. He staggered, a wave a tiredness firing through his nerves almost painfully. He grasped a tree beside him for support. God, god. He missed Tony, Steve. Natasha. Clint. Thor. He sunk to his knees and looked down at the black black black soil beneath him. It looks soft, he thought. Soft enough for me. He lowered his head to it, feeling the cold ground prickle against his cheek. It was quiet out there. He wanted, more than anything, and though he shouldn’t, a hand to hold. Just a hand to hold. 

Steve, he wept into the soil and curled into himself, hold me again please. 

Wakefulness was slow, so slow. How odd, the song of a bird above his head. Direct sunlight in his eyes, definitely not normal given the position of his apartment in the tower. And then all at once. A lime green snail on the back of Bruce’s palm woke him fully, the sensation so unsettling that he immediately realized his surroundings in a beat, and all of the memories came back. He shook himself. There was a team missing, a life of his to end, and distance to cover. Let’s go. After venturing to a small brook between two enormous sequoias and washing his face, he began the journey again, walking without aim through the trees, merely coming up with a trail as he went along. Though he must’ve slept for at least eight hours, given the position of the sun in the sky, his body felt as though he had gotten no sleep at all. That probably had something to do with the fact that even before the mission happened, he couldn’t tell you the last time he had eaten. But this sort of sitch—meaning the nomadic, roll with the punches and survive off of saliva kind of sitch—was what Bruce did best. But that’s what was worrying him. He could take two weeks and a half without water, walk miles with large fractions of debris impaling his feet, sleep comfortably in trees or in between rocks, but he wasn’t sure his other four appurtenances could say the same. 

He wasn’t sure how long he walked for. It’s hard to figure the passage of time in a place like this, where the sun seems to filtrate through the thick mass of forest from the same direction hour after hour until suddenly it’s gone. There wasn’t much to say for his journey either. He was in a forest, walking and walking. He meant to stay close to the shore, safer that way, but predictably veered inland as he wandered. Though he had the rich jungle canopy to shade him from the harsh South American sun, the trees captured the heat within its insulation and it felt as though it was cooking him alive. The day was slipping from him, and his patience was slowly waning at a similar rate. He hollered sometimes, for Steve, and for Tony. For Clint and Natasha. But with his voice so weak and dry from dehydration, and more than often drowned out by the cawing of birds high in the treetops, his efforts were fruitless. 

When he spotted shore—the glistening manganese blue waves actually, actually beckoning him—his exhaustion, which was all he was comprised of at this point really, faded away and he took off at a run. He reached it, the gentle grains so heavenly in contrast to the rough forest floor he had been marching that he started to laugh, and he scooped up the ocean in his hands and washed his sweating forehead and gulped it down like some divine sap. Bruce found a rock flat enough to sit against without waking with a cramp and leaned up against it. His chin was wet with water and dripping. His knees were soiled with sand and cut up from the sharp shells he dropped himself on. But he felt so incredible. Yeah, his family was missing, their conditions unknown. Sure, he could barely string a thought together without it being interrupted by his encrypted want to die. Despite that, the view was magnificent from here. The waves were sweet, their sound just like the CD recordings he would listen to to fall asleep as a kid. The sun was a white and brilliant orb, balancing right on the tip of the sea, its reflection winking at him as if it had just told him a secret. He couldn’t believe it once it happened, but the sun was gone and another day had passed. Day two, his mind supplied. Day two without the team. He was cold again. His skin felt unusually thin and his bones brittle, the open shore breeze excreting through him like a bleeding teabag does to hot water. Bruce tightened his hold on himself. Maybe he’d die from hypothermia out here. Maybe the breeze would blow away first his hair, he imagines how it would look drifting in a flurry down west, then gradually whittle down his skin, his nails, gnaw away his bones, eat his organs hollow, until there is nothing left of him against that rock but the clothes he once wore. 

The next day, it was nighttime again. Bruce’s day had been horribly uneventful, for the most part. He woke and sat at his rock for a bit longer, rubbing his cheeks and eyes to erode away the puffy feeling his skin had adopted during the night. Before setting off on his footslog, he found sizable alocasia leaves to strap onto his soles with hedera helix to protect his feet from burning on the open sands. The walk was cooler than the day before, and he spent it more attentively, walking in where the waves are small and bending down to trail his fingers through the water. It was peaceful, and Bruce found himself wishing for a soundtrack to highlight his journey. Something epic, Tony’s choice. Fucking hell—was he homesick. Around midday, he was immersed in his thoughts, staring painfully up at the white-hot sky, when he stepped forcefully straight onto an exposed shard of washed-up sea glass. The fragment bit right through the alocasia and into his skin. He is a doctor, so he isn’t squeamish, even when it comes to himself, and so he promptly bent down and unceremoniously extracted it from its place in his sole, a cry tearing itself from his throat. The next hour was spent biting his lip from screaming while he rubbed salt and sand in the wound, the grit tearing at the edges of the cut, in an effort to spur infection. Once he was able to walk, and once the burning had subsided to a throbbing, he made about a mile of progress and then it was dark again. 

Bruce was devoid of any exhaustion on his third night, the hideous wound of his smarting so violently that it was impossible to feel anything else. He stayed up drawing shapes and patterns into the sand with a stick, driven by the light of the moon. He had found a nice secluded spot, the least infested with crabs, and crossed his legs and leant his head back. He drew the plants he observed and the animals he’d spotted and the shells he collected on his walks but had to abandon once his hands were full. He stopped drawing and scratched absently at the sand, digging the stick deeper into the bank as his cut pulsed painfully, forcing his eyes closed. The surge made his body tip involuntarily backwards against the rock he was slumped next to, and his hands jerked. Jesus fucking Christ, he cursed, this is the devil. His eyes stayed closed, at this point he wasn’t even sure he could open them if he tried, as he willed his body into mitigation. He kept his mind busy for a while, thinking up dreamy scenarios and imagining his friends, until he finally disengaged enough energy from focusing on the wound that unconsciousness was in sight. He was there, he could see it not too far, just a touch deeper— 

Very distantly a sound broke through his subconscious. A thump thump thump far down what he guessed was to his left, a long way down the beach. Footsteps, his brain excitedly reckoned. But he wouldn’t get ahead of himself. It was getting a touch louder, still so far away. The beach was silent save for those mysterious vibrations through the sand. He cursed himself and his immobile body, his damned wound. He twitched, cracking open his eyes through the pain, trying to turn his body towards the sound. It was growing, thump thump thump. If he could only twist himself to look that way, to try a make out a person. The steps were getting closer—he was sure they were steps now; he couldn’t misplace the sound of heavy footfalls after years on the run—running, it seemed. His wound gave an awful smart that forced his eyes back closed again, and a whimper almost escaped him. His heart was beating out of control, the anticipation and giddy excitement caused by those running footfalls leaving him on tenterhooks. Please, please, please, he pleaded with the universe, let it be them. The footsteps came so close, not a yard away, and Bruce started to smack the ground next to him desperately with one hand, pain coursing through his body with each slap, because it was all he could do to assert his presence, to let them know I’m here, I’m here. Suddenly the footsteps came so forcefully, so rough on the ground, no doubt kicking up sand every which way, that Bruce was overwhelmed on top of everything with how loud the sound came rushing towards him. 

“Oh, my god,” a voice, soft but so panicked came from somewhere above him, and then two knees skidded hard into his side, jarring his foot and making white-hot pain shoot from his sole, but all Bruce could feel was the two strong, solid, so solid, arms that came around him and crushed his shivering body to their chest. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Tony said, relief dripping from his voice. Bruce grasped at Tony’s sleeves, holding onto his blessed solid form like there was nothing more important in the world. He was wet, his skin cold and clammy, his clothing caked with sand and his hair...he didn’t even want to know what his hair looked like, but none of this mattered in Tony’s arms. He hadn’t even realized how much he needed a person to hold him, how deep his longing for his family was, how homesick he felt, until it came back to him. Tony’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head, and Bruce could feel Tony’s chest bubbling with sobs. He felt, stupidly but not uncharacteristically, very needy and selfish in that moment, for expecting affection from Tony when he had failed to locate them these past three days, when he had been so weak, but one shush from Tony and those thoughts dissipated. Tony situated them with Bruce lying slumped to his side, and then cupped his hands around Bruce’s ears. “Guys! Steve!” He hollered down eastward. Bruce perked up slightly at the mention of the other guys, of Steve. Had they all been together all this time? 

Tony petted his head a bit too fast, still slightly hysterical. “They’re coming,” he murmured to him, rubbing a hand up and down his arm very soothingly, “they’re coming, it’s alright.” And Bruce thought he might start crying too. With Tony’s warm body firm against his back and the quickly approaching Steve and Clint and Natasha, who shortly arrived with collective sounds of elation and huddled around him so close, his deep-rooted exhaustion finally caught up with him and sleep rushed in. 

The next time Bruce woke up, the sun was already high. He groaned, craning his body out to relieve it of tightness, which he immediately regretted. The wound sent a great biting surge of pain springing up his left, and his hands quickly went to grab it but were caught and put back on his chest. 

“Bruce! You’re awake,” One voice exclaimed, surprising him. And then, “You shouldn’t try to touch it,” another voice warned, “Got yourself a real beast, there.” 

Bruce finally opened his eyes, squinting in the brightness. Steve was sitting on his left, a hand resting on Bruce’s thigh, rubbing circles in with his thumb. He noted that someone had wrapped some sort on cloth around his sole. Looking around further, he noticed Tony to his right, holding his hand tightly, and Clint and Natasha not too far away, digging through a duffel bag. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said, leaning back again and just looking at them. Steve looked impeccable, considering he’d been surviving on a desert island for three days with no way of hygiene. His hair was slightly disheveled, three days' worth of stubble on his jaw, clothes a touch dirty, but otherwise just as presentable as ever. Tony had dark bags underneath his eyes and a good bit of stubble himself, but Bruce couldn’t say those too attributes didn’t commonly append Tony Stark. Peering as far as could to distinguish Clint and Natasha’s appearances, he found nothing out of the ordinary. No injuries, no sunburn, no extreme weight-loss. Okay, he concluded with satisfaction, they’re okay. 

Steve smiled at him in sympathy. “How are you?” He asked. Bruce knew what he was asking, and he knew his answer too, but he decided just to stare at him instead. The last time he saw Steve he was closing Bruce’s one window out; the whole thing was still a bit raw. Bruce squirmed slightly. After experiencing that with Steve, and in retrospect realizing that Steve had understood his intentions completely, he felt exposed and vulnerable and scrutinized in his presence. Steve tried again. “Have you eaten anything? Been drinking? Fuck, it’s been four whole days, you’re probably famished.” 

Bruce shook his head. “I’m,” he started. God, his throat was dry. “I’m sorry, that, that I couldn’t find you.” He told them, cheeks burning a bit. “I got a bit lost,” he admitted. As if that excused it. He looked around at them to gauge their thoughts, and was put-off by the incredulous expressions on all four of their faces. Steve looked down at the sand, sighing and shaking his head. 

“What?” He asked. They didn’t believe him? “I really am sorry.” 

Tony shook his head, looking kind of emotional. He scooted up closer to Bruce’s side, running the back of his hand against his face. So, so gently. “We were so worried, Bruce.” He frowned, looking up at Tony in puzzlement, and then laughed. “Why? I’m just fine,” he grinned, and vaguely wondered if his smile looked frightening paired the state of his appearance. 

“Bruce, you have a cut the size of Alaska on the bottom of your foot, you just slept for twenty-eight hours, and you look like you’ve lost like eleven pounds. Eleven pounds you really couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. Don’t tell us you’re fine,” Tony dead-panned. Bruce shrugged, a huff escaping his mouth. He didn’t know what to say. He pinched some sand between his index and his thumb. “Twenty-eight hours?” he tried. 

“Bruce,” Steve said, scooting closer too. Both of them so close to him almost felt suffocating if not for the sheer relief he felt for interacting with other humans. “Talk to us. We haven’t seen you for days, we really have been worried sick. Even if that’s hard for you to believe,” He added. “We just want to know what happened.” 

“What happened?” 

Steve looked like he was two dumb statements away from face-palming. “Okay, what happened to your foot? Let’s start there.” 

Bruce shrugged again. He knew, he knew they were going to overreact whether he told them the truth or not. Why hadn’t the blasted wound just gotten infected like it was supposed to and killed me or something, he thought in vain. “I stepped on a shell.” He eventually provided, shrugging his hand. 

Tony winced. “Must’ve hurt like hell,” he said. Steve didn’t sympathize so much. “And the salt and sand that is wedged in it? The torn-up edges of your skin? How’d that happen?” He immediately questioned. Bruce made a so-so gesture. “It just happened.” 

“What just happened, Bruce? You intentionally putting that shit in your cut just happened?” 

“Steve,” Tony said gingerly. “Lay off him. We’re stuck on an island; his cut is on the bottom of his foot. Sand is bound to end up in it.” Steve shook his head. “No, Tony. Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly how he thinks.” His voice started to break. 

“Steve!” Tony looked at him in shock, but Steve was already standing. 

“Whatever. I’m going on a walk. Don’t bother waiting up,” he said shortly, and took off down east. His figure disappeared down the shoreline within minutes, and silence settled in around the four of them. Bruce looked down at himself, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but he knew it was warranted. He was awake for maybe ten minutes already and he already pissed somebody off. God, he wished he was dead. “Hey,” Tony said to get his attention, grasping his hand a bit tighter. “Don’t mind him. He’s just grumpy because there’s no freshly grilled hamburger at his dispense and no outlet for his patriotism. Try not to take it personally, okay?” He winked, then his features got very serious. “Though,” and this was where his voice dropped a few octaves, “we do need to talk soon. Not right now—don't panic, god, you’re really on edge Brucie—but soon. Okay?” Bruce nodded reluctantly. It was the least he could promise. 

“Good,” Tony gave a jerky nod. “Good.” He waved over Clint and Natasha, both of whom Bruce had entirely forgotten were even there, and who both looked very uncomfortable, and then turned back to him. “Thing One and Thing Two here helpfully grabbed the equipment duffel before we took off. They’re gonna try to clean and dress that friend of yours, ok? And then we’ll get a snack bar or something in you. Sound good?” 

Bruce, as speechless and trifling as he felt, figured he could grant him a syllable. “Sure.” 

The process was simple, and short, but admittedly one of the most painful things Bruce had ever experienced to that day. He honestly wasn't very aware of how bad off his cut actually was, so the unforgiving sight of the three-inch wide, one-half-inch deep mouth oozing dubious pusses and crusting around the edges with lips of dried blood on the sole of his left foot was a bit of a shock. The cleaning was what made him suffer, that shit fucking hurt. He thought the cleaning actually hurt worse than the pain of when the shell first skewered his foot. Not that Natasha wasn’t incredibly gentle about it, though maybe that was a contributor, maybe if she had gotten it over with in a few seconds rather than dragging out the process to a matter of minutes then it might’ve not been so insufferable. But he wasn’t going to be an ungrateful wuss, so he kept his mouth shut and his eyes stubbornly away from the operation. Dressing it was easier to bear. Natasha applied a bit of salve, situated a long strip of gauze, wrapped it up tightly with bandage, and then kissed it better. 

Tony was determined that Bruce stay off his feet for the next few days, that his bad foot shouldn’t carry any more weight than Bruce has already levied it, and helped Bruce sit properly up against a large rock in the shade. After talking for an hour or two, Clint and Tony relaying bits and pieces of their past four days and warily discussing the food dilemma once they run out of the chalky SHIELD brand snack bars, with Bruce listening idly while nibbling the bar Tony had thrust into his hand, the sun was finally setting. As half of it was already hidden behind the glittering horizon, washing the forest in gold, light was decreasing rapidly with each minute and Steve was still nowhere to be seen. Bruce cocked his eyes down the stretch of beach as best he could in the dimming light. He propped himself up a bit and nudged Tony. “Do you think Steve’s okay?” He asked. 

“Of course, he’s Steve. Anyway, he said not to wait up,” Tony answered easily. His features softened though when he noticed Bruce’s still troubled expression. “Don’t worry about Steve, Brucie. You know how he gets when he’s all worked up, but after a good jog and some time to think, he’s good as new.” He tried to believe Tony. He was right after all, Steve isn’t irresponsible; he would never stay away to intentionally cause worry, or out of stubborn anger. He only hopes that Steve will accept his apology once he returns, even if he has every reason not to. 

\-------------- 

Steve kicked the sand aggressively. Fuck. 

Rationally, he knew he had no reason to be angry. Wait, no, he countered, nodding to himself, fuck that. I have every fucking right to be angry. He’s messing with my head. Rationally, he knew Bruce wasn’t intentionally messing with his head. Of course not, Bruce was fucking harmless. He couldn’t deliberately hurt a fly, if he tried. But he was in denial, a deep, all-encompassing, untouchable, uninfluenced void of denial. He was fucking suffering. For god’s sake—the man tried to throw himself out of a jet not five days ago. He looked like a skeleton. He purposefully grinded grit into his Paradise Cave equivalent of a cut. He had enough self-endangering shit piled up against him to confine him to a hospital bed for months, and Steve was this close to going through with that threat. 

But at the same time, Bruce was like an immaterial Houdini. When Steve wasn’t examining every wording and facial expression of his with a fine-toothed comb, he could almost describe Bruce to you as a well-adjusted, emotionally sound man. With a slight anger malfunction. Bruce kept his flinches to the minimum, clipped his sentences enough to tailor to whatever expectations he accurately assumed his company had, carefully avoided self-depreciating phrases, ate when he had too, included himself when it seemed wonted to include himself, and dodged all inquiries with the symmetry of an acrobat, all while staying conveniently shrouded in the shadows. Sometimes, back home, you could be in a room with him for hours at a time and not know he was ever there until you accidentally bump into him on the way out. 

Where did he learn to act like that? What happened to him that made it a necessity to? 

Truth was it was fucking up Steve’s subconscious. What was he supposed to believe? The Bruce that they all were witness too, if that Bruce was genuine or not? Or the Bruce that Steve knew, and he knew, because he wasn’t daft, he could see the signs, was lying underneath the surface? He really didn’t know how to act around him. At times, he was congested with the desire to yell at the man, to force him into safety, to drill loving thoughts and promises of care into him, through to his brain, until he understood. But something was stopping him from that, something he knew wasn’t logical. It was some kind of metaphysical force surrounding Bruce or something. To make him uncomfortable was to commit a deadly sin, and it was immovable. So other times he figured it might be easier that way. It was definitely simpler. Ignore the red flags, focus on the smiles and capitalize on the bonding moments. Forget the days when he looked a nudge away from blowing his brains out, and remember the one laugh two days ago, or the excitement around his eyes you could’ve sworn you saw yesterday. That way, there are no responsibilities on Steve’s part, no worrying—one man for himself, right?—and no discomfort on Bruce’s. He’s free to be as self-destructive as the pleases. 

So that’s what Steve has been doing for the past thirteen months since he met Bruce. And that’s what Tony’s been doing, and Clint and Natasha and Thor. Because of course that’s what the poster child for patriotic bravery and nationality integrity, and four more of the world’s prime protectors, do in their personal affairs; take the easy route. He’s skirted around every little or big concern for the sake of his own cowardice, and for Bruce’s fucking peace of mind. But during these past few months it has gotten increasingly more difficult to execute an attitude of indifference. Every time Bruce’s careful mask would falter or his gaze grew too tired, glittering in his eyes something different than typical exhaustion, it would become more and more impossible to bear. 

He started to think, am I really doing the right thing? Because, when the crazy clouds started to clear and his intelligence was finally unsheathed, he realized all he’s been doing this whole time is essentially helping to push Bruce closer off the edge. He wasn’t aiding him in ‘preserving his peace of mind’, he was literally personally contributing to his wasting away. To leave Bruce’s fate in the hands of himself is to, in essence, stick an apple in his mouth and leave him as food for the reaper. Upon this belated epiphany (which shouldn’t have been one at all), Steve promptly panicked. Not to mention the sheer fucking hysteria he internally felt when he saw the look on Bruce’s face on the jet. That could really be considered his ultimate breaking point. Seeing the horrible, awful, just plain wrong expression of willpower to kill himself sketched around Bruce’s features made him decide right then, as he had shoved a parachute on Bruce, grabbed him, and didn’t let go, and as if he were establishing a resolution, to really change his ways and be there for Bruce even if the support wasn’t welcome. 

They’d allowed Bruce to go too far, and were paying for it, but it was time to clean up their act and step in, like friends do, to make sure Bruce lives a long-ass, happy life like he very much deserves. Even if he fought them tooth and nail along the way. Even if he refused. Somebody was going to show up for the man, goddammit, and Steve was going to be that somebody. 

He looked around, gathering how long he’d wandered down the shoreline. Huh, he regarded. You know, they’re probably getting worried. I should head back. The sun was already three-fourths hidden behind the horizon, it’s last rays of light shimmering brilliantly across the fine sands and clear waters. He turned, pausing for moment for remember which direction he had actually been coming from, and began to head back. He started to think about what he would tell them once he got back, he did sort of storm off in an unreasonable brume of anger which called for some form of explanation. He hoped Bruce didn’t think he was mad at him, when in reality it was more like he was mad with him. As if that made sense, or a difference. But it did nothing to hope. Bruce was Bruce, and considering Steves usually contained demeanor compared with how he had overreacted, he was definitely assuming the worst. Steve would actually bet a large fraction of Tony’s money to the possibility that Bruce had already devised multiple imaginary reasons for Steve’s conniption fit and justified them all himself. 

He eventually reached their makeshift campsite well after dark, the moon his single guiding light. From what he could make out in the dark, Natasha and Clint were huddled together underneath a tree over to the right, the duffel bag serving as a shared pillow under their heads, and Tony and Bruce were a bit to the left, lying more upright. Nearing closer, Steve could see Bruce’s head tucked beneath Tony’s chin, the soft breaths from his slightly parted mouth telling Steve he was asleep. Tony was leaning his head on top of Bruce’s, one hand rhythmically smoothing over his curls. Steve smiled a bit despite himself, and crouched next to Bruce, ghosting a thumb over his bandaged foot then moving to brush some fringe from his forehead. He looked so childlike in sleep. 

“Hey,” Tony’s groggy voice suddenly came as he stretched slightly and moved Bruce’s head a bit higher on his chest. “Gosh, his breath is so ticklish.” 

“Did I wake you?” Steve asked, recovering from the startle. 

“Nah, been up for a while. Managed a few minutes maybe, what was it? An hour ago? I dunno, it’s a bloody nightmare trying to get comfortable out here.” 

“He doesn’t seem to have any trouble,” Steve muttered, tipping his head at Bruce. 

“He’s used to it,” Tony said, and the mood immediately shifted. They were silent for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Bruce’s chest. Trying not to think about those years, not those years, not those years— “So, what happened back there?” Tony broke through quietly, looking down and adjusting the collar of Bruce’s shirt. 

Steve busied himself too, shrugging off his light jacket and tucking it onto Bruce’s legs once he noticed the shivering. “I overreacted. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just walk off like that.” He swallowed and reiterated. “Well, yeah...I did mean to walk off, but I just needed to collect my thoughts. You know, get it together. I wouldn’t want to blow my top and explode on Bruce right when he woke up, that wouldn’t be fair.” 

“Yeah. You made him think you were mad at him for something he couldn’t control right when he woke up, instead. ‘Cause that’s much better,” Tony scoffed. Steve looked down. He really messed up, didn’t he? 

“I’m sorry,” Tony said after a while. “He just—he just—” 

“I know. It wasn’t right of me,” Steve said quietly, unable to look up at Tony. At Bruce. 

“No,” Tony nodded, “it wasn’t. But you were angry. And I guess you had a right to be. But now I,” he paused, and leant forward as far as he could without jarring Bruce and grasped Steve’s arm, forcing him to look him in the eyes, “now I need you to level with me. Really level with me. Steve, I’m not completely obtuse, I can decode a facial expression, even in a crisis. I’ve avoided it these last couple days out of respect for your space and all but, but I need to know. What happened with you two on that jet?” 

Steve sighed. This conversation had to come sometime; he just wasn’t prepared for it. He didn’t know what to tell him, he didn’t know how to deal with the way he knew Tony’s face would crumble, his speculations assured, and watch him come to terms with his best friend being that low again. 

“We, uh, there was—he had a hard time, uh, shit, I don’t know how to explain this,” Steve cringed, putting a hand over his eyes. “Tony, it was so bad.” Only a sentence in, and he could sense himself beginning to get worked up. Where the hell was the cap on his emotions lately? 

Tony rubbed his arm. “Hey, calm down. It’s ok.” 

“He—he was going to try to kill himself, Tony,” Steve said, voice trembling. He could feel Tony tense. “It all happened so quickly, but he got this, this look on his face once he realized what was happening, and, and I could see it in his eyes. You know—you’ve seen it before. He, he kinda locked up, right, and I could tell nothing I was saying was being heard, so I—I got him a parachute and grabbed him. Wha-what else could I do, you know? There wasn’t any time, w-we were fucking falling. And then he started fighting me. Struggling, Tony, he was trying to escape from me. So—so that he could, you know, but I held him real tight and when we jumped, I still had him, holding on for dear life, but Tony, I was so scared I was going to drop him. So fucking scared. He was, he was crying and he—he looked so angry. Tony, I’d never seen him so angry, and that’s, that has to break some sort of record or something. And it was because of me. So, so I told him was sorry but I had to do it, I told him I loved him, and then I let his parachute go,” Steve said, crying now, and started to trace words into the sand with his fingertip. “But these past few days, god,” he gasped, “they’ve been torture. Pure torture, Tony. Once his, his parachute had gone off, he flew away from me and I couldn’t see, it happened at lightning speed, so—so,” his cries started to get out of hand, hiccupping between his words. Christ, he needed to pull himself together, but reliving the whole thing through was harder than he’d anticipated, “I thought I killed him, Tony. Oh, god, I really did. I knew, obviously, that the parachute had gone off without a hitch, they’re SHIELD manufactured, for god’s sake, but after a day or two without finding him, my mind went to horrible places. That it had worked but he had landed so far out at sea that it had drowned him, or it got ripped or something in the process and couldn’t save him, that maybe it suffocated him upon landing and he got stuck, that—that—that—” 

“Shh, shh,” Tony shushed him, voice cracking. And suddenly Tony was pulling him in and holding him as they cried, because apparently Tony was sobbing just as hard if not harder than Steve. 

“And, th-the,” Steve struggled to control his breath, “the first thing I did when he wakes up, after days of being, being separated, is fucking walk away?” He said incredulously, as though he couldn’t believe himself. He put his head in his hands. “What was wrong with me?” 

“Nothing is wrong with you, Steve, stop it. You’re human. So, your emotions took control of you in the moment? That happens to the best of us. Moreover, you—you,” Tony had pause himself, tears again springing to his eyes. He forced Steve’s chin up to look at him straight. “You saved his life, Steve. You saved his life.” And then they were both full-on ugly crying, unexpected, noisy sobs wracking through their bodies as they clutched each other over Bruce, who was miraculously still asleep. They sat there for a while, simply holding each other. Neither of them was used to such abraded, vulnerable conversations, or talking about their emotions in general, so it took them both longer to recover from stripping their conscious down to the tissue and unsheathing the usually well-cached. Though the tears had finally lessened, Steve waited for a moment to speak before he knew he could trust his voice. 

“What are we going to do about him?” He finally said quietly, his voice shattering the still oceanside silence like a hammer to glass. 

Tony drew back slightly. “What?” 

“Bruce. What are we going to about Bruce?” 

“Yeah, I got who you were referring to,” Tony replied, a bit haughtily. 

“What’s your problem?” Steve asked, wiping his damp cheeks and giving Tony a look. 

“I just think that maybe one of us understands Bruce’s needs and exigencies, better than the other, that’s all,” Tony shrugged, looking away from Steve and fixing Bruce’s fringe. Steve was aghast. 

“Excuse me?!” 

“Steve, you’ve rarely tried to get to know Bruce. We’ve all known each other for, what? A year or so? And what’ve you done for him in terms of connecting during that time? Uh, fucking nothing. Steve, these problems aren’t new. They’ve been an appendage to Bruce since long before we met him. Fuck—I see them in him every day. He hides it all scarily well, I know, but there, there’ve been days, Steve. Days spent holed in his room because he can’t take it anymore but can’t let anyone see. And it’s been right under your fucking nose! I’m not—I'm not saying it was your responsibility or anything, to notice or to care, but it just gets under my skin that you’ve been so fucking indifferent all this time and suddenly you think you can jump right in and play hero,” Tony fumed. 

“What? You think that’s what I’m trying to do?” Steve asked, a bit shocked. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“Okay, yeah I admit I haven’t been supportive these past few months. Basically, I’ve been a coward. I’ve ignored his struggling to protect my clear conscience and—believe me here—to preserve his. I honestly thought he would be happier if I didn’t interfere, which may be true, but it wasn’t right. It—it’s been driving him further towards the edge. And I’ve been stricken with remorse these past few days—” 

“So now you’re playing victim, right,” Tony muttered. 

“I’m admitting that I’m in the fault, Tony! What more do you want?” Steve was getting flustered. 

“I want you, someone, anyone, to make up for the months of damage these past few months caused! I want to turn back time and pay more attention, to notice where I went wrong, to show more support. He has had zero family his entire life and suddenly he finds people and then each fucking one of them ignores the shit of him. I—I,” Tony looked down, getting emotional again, “I have done the same thing, Steve. I assumed the same thing you assumed—that, that he would be better off if I didn’t comment on the bad days or knock on his door when he locked himself up. And while I at least sat down with him almost every morning and every night to talk, to coax stories out of him about his travels, to hear the things he liked, I avoided all the tough topics for the sake of my own fucking comfort.” His voice started to shake. “What kind of a friend is that? I mean, that’s what I realized five months ago, which is when I started to initiate the hard conversations and point out my concerns. Which, yeah, we were right, it only made him squirm and grow uncomfortable and want to run—but he needs to open up. He needs to know we do care about him.” 

“So, wait,” Steve said after a moment, processing Tony’s words. “You’re telling me you’re guilty of the same thing you literally just accused me of?” 

“The difference is, Steve, Bruce knows that I care. Bruce understands that, or he says he does. Because I’ve spent time showing him that,” Tony said, voice low. He pulled the sleeves of Bruce’s sweater further down his arms. 

“Bruce knows I care,” Steve replied, but could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. He’d never thought about it before, it just seemed like a given. 

“Honestly, hearing you talk about what happened on the jet right now was the first time I really realized that you cared. So Imma gonna say that no, he doesn’t.” 

“What?” 

Tony sighed. “Steve, you know Bruce’s past, or the SHIELD documented extent of it, I guess. You know that he was raised believing nobody gave a shit about him, and then met new people who didn’t give a shit about him, and then tried to help people who didn’t give a shit about him. It’s all he knows. So he is going to naturally assume, upon meeting anyone, that they don’t give a shit about him. I learned—I learned that if I want Bruce to know that I do give a shit about him, I’m gonna have to spell it out for him. Like, letters hooked on phonics, spelled out,” he gave a big exhale, “It’s just how it is. Yeah, it’s fucking frustrating with how repetitive I have to be, but if that’s what it takes, then okay. He just—he really doesn’t believe anyone would ever care about him—ever. He doesn’t understand why they would. I don’t even think he really believes me, even, despite my efforts, because he has that tendency to agree with and lie along to anything he thinks would satisfy me. See, Steve, even if you had paid your two cents and given him the time of day these past months—no, don’t, just listen—even you had done that, and showed up at his door everyday with flowers and a doting note, or hugged him every time you saw him, or reminded him how much you cared every night before bed—he still would assume you didn’t like him. Simply because he doesn’t like himself.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah. Shit,” Tony chuckled darkly. 

“But, Tony,” Steve sat up, trying to find his words. This was all so much to absorb. “Just—just because I haven’t been there, just because I’ve been a terrible friend in the past, doesn’t mean I can’t change.” 

“Uhuh, and how many people did you know in the 40’s with mental illness? How many friends did you have to pull out of the fiery pits of depression and walk with to recovery? Do you know anything about this kind of stuff?” Tony questioned. 

“What does that have to do with anything? I care about Bruce, I want to see him get better, I’m here—how is that not enough for you? You’d think, after all the people that have left and betrayed Bruce in his life, that you, being a person that cares about him, would fully embrace the possibility of another positive relationship for him,” Steve bristled in disbelief. Tony tried to inject, but Steve stopped him. “I’m, I—I'm not ignorant, Tony. And I’ve dealt with things myself, you know, things that Bruce can sympathize with. I understand his feelings of imposing, his unbelonging. The foreignism of your own skin that sometimes makes you want to rip it open. The unabating sense of displacement. He’s gone through hell with the other guy, and while I will never understand that, the—the sheer nightmare it must be, I can at least relate a little bit. I have—I do have something to offer here, Tony, if you would just let me,” Steve finished, basically pleading now, breath growing thin. 

Tony stared at him for a moment. His eyes were wide, and he looked for a moment like a completely different person to Steve. “I—I,” he sputtered, then he looked down abruptly. Looking at Bruce. “Um,” he said, and then he looked back up at Steve, who was taken aback to see the tears in his eyes. Tony nodded quickly, trying to rapidly blink away his tears. “Yeah—yeah. No, you’re, you’re right. I guess, I just,” he swallowed, “I’m just used to, I dunno, worrying about Bruce alone. I guess I felt like I was the only one who saw it. Saw him. I—I hadn’t realized it, but—I've been resenting you guys for that this whole time. That you weren’t trying for him. And, and that’s wrong of me.” 

Steve shook his head, taking Tony’s hand. “You had a right to resent us, to resent me. What’s worse than not noticing, is noticing but doing nothing. And that’s what I’ve been doing. God, it’s like those kids who used to stand by when I got beat up as a kid. I used to wonder how they could just stand there, watching someone do that to someone else—you'd think I would’ve learned something about exercising discretion. But now I—now I’m that one that stood by, only the bully was Bruce himself,” Steve said, crying himself now. They always ended up crying, didn’t they? 

“We gotta do better,” Tony said very quietly, smoothing over Bruce’s hair for the umpteenth time, and sniffling loudly. He was still lying asleep on Tony’s chest, soft breathing only barely heard over the crashing waves. His face was buried in Tony’s neck, with his hand curled up underneath his chin. 

“We will,” Steve said, “we will.” And then, quieter, to Bruce, “You aren’t alone anymore. You aren’t alone, we’re here. We’re here.” He took Bruce’s hand, feeling it’s coldness, it’s bony knuckles and callous skin. He laid his head on his legs. 

“We’re here now, Brucie,” Tony repeated in a whisper, and moved Bruce even tighter against him. They lapsed into silence, staring up at the wide, sparkling night sky until their eyelids grew heavy and they bid each other quiet goodnights. A lot was revealed that night, and there was so much left unsaid, but they let uncertainty and exhaustion overtake them for the moment, and kept faith in tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> this was not meant to be anything, just something i was writing for fun, but it has been sitting for awhile and i thought id just post what i have, because what the fuck. ive barely read this over, so i dont even know if its any good, but let me know what you think. im not planning on expanding this, but if anyone takes a liking, i may just consider :) thanks for reading! ciao


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